


Chromatic

by outcharm



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Needs a Hug, Angst and Porn, Brief Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Cunnilingus, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time Blow Jobs, Flirting, Goro’s not too soft here it’s more about his need to please, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexting, this is long. i’m not sorry.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outcharm/pseuds/outcharm
Summary: Everything’s usually black, white, or different shades of grey. His lover lights a match speckled with what could possibly be some color. Goro lets it burn.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	1. Hues

Most children start their lives born into simple boxes of morality; what’s right is right, what’s wrong is wrong. There is no subjectiveness to morality. To the average child, morality is like a simple step by step meal: fried rice, chicken, and broccoli all placed neatly in a bento box, sealed up charmingly with a red ribbon, and transparent glass so clean it looks bulletproof.

Goro never really had the luxury of that. Yes, luxury. A child’s years should be clean and sparkly with innocence, but innocence is like food; able to be rationed, able to go down a slow decline in resources. By the time he entered foster homes, he was a starving child with an appetite so insatiable it sizzled at the same temperature of flaming cigarettes.

Goro learned early that there was no simple right or wrong, especially when it comes to desire. At least, not in the way other children saw it. Most children grow into taller children, and then, they’re called adults. But even then, most of them are just that; tall children. If you asked most tall children what they think of prostitution, the immediate response would be unmistakably viscous to the prostitute involved, and it’s always misogyny disguised as evangelical goodness, one that’s born from the heart. But if you tell tall children that the reason the prostitute does her type of work is to provide for a small child whose father left them in the disease of poverty, something intolerable begins to spasm in the air until it _sticks_ . It sticks like gum several weeks old onto the bottom of a desk. It sticks like damp, soggy socks in winter boots during a storm, every step you take moaning a sloshy moist noise. It is that feeling your teeth get when you don’t brush your teeth until afternoon on a Sunday. It’s grime you can’t _fucking_ scrub clean.

Goro was born into this routine. It’s never disgusted him nearly as much as the other children. It’s instinctual to one of his circumstances, not adaptational. It’s how babies automatically grasp various objects or people to avoid falling to their death.

In black and white, there is a spectrum of greys that are dangerously committed to this raw, blistered and bloody ugliness. They’re married in unholy matrimony. It’s easier to believe in black and whites, goods and evils, as beauty is tranquility. Naivety is drawn to beauty. But what lurks quietly behind the cloak of simplicities are shadows, all in shades of grey. In grey lies the existence of Goro Akechi. He feeds off other shades of grey to survive. Survival manifests in many different forms, but Goro’s favorite coping mechanism was slaughtering entities in the cognitive world. If he were to show most people his hedonistic indulgence in vengeance, they’d look at him like he just shot their childhood pet.

Still, if you look hard enough, even tall children can find some value in spectrums. There is no automatic switch hooked up to a man made machine that starts the nights and days. There’s night, blue, glorious night that soaks up the quiet of humanity’s sleep. There are no stars in a city like Tokyo, but there is darkness and less souls crammed on the subway together like tuna packaging. It’s blue, and it’s black, and then the night surrenders to the rising red sun. It’s a gradual victory for the sun - the night does not give in easily, and so, there is a power struggle that ensues between the two. Neither the royal or baby blue skies are present in that moment; there is that greyness between black and white, and it manifests into golds and pinks that feel like a warm bath to the soul, cleansing in its glory. The spectrum is necessary here. In other cases, tall children seem incapable of producing the thought that perhaps, necessary spectrums lie in morality too.

Perhaps because one is nature, and the other one is humanity, which the latter has tricked themselves into believing nature is a part of them, not the other way around.

Yes, that seems like a child’s point of view.

Goro has witnessed every grey scale, felt it sting like a wasp on his thigh, tasted the sour spice that assaulted his taste buds, let it claw down his spine. And yet, here he is, still having the faith to think he’s enacting justice when he has let this much blood soak into his palms.

It’s easier not to think about that. Maybe, _just_ maybe, he’s growing into a tall child too, just one with too many bandages slapped hastily on purple bruised scars. 

Goro buries the thought down into the soil of his mind, 6 feet under for good measure, just as any guilty murderer should do when hiding the evidence. Only when it’s three feet under, when he’s screaming till his throat is raw with rage as another enemy avoids his attack, is when Goro starts to question what he’s fighting for, just as any fucking lousy criminal would do when faced with their monstorous reflection. He should be numb to feeling now, like coke heads are when they inhale their 2 seconds of bliss. And yet, here it is, another spectrum of shadowy grey poking out and taking space in his head when it has no right to. It’s asking a pesky question he wants to squash mercilessly under his blistered thumb.

What is the difference between life and death? Is this _living_ to you?

Goro’s mind snaps to what the tall child in himself would respond with. He can’t wait to rip that fragment of his heart into shreds. He’ll be even crueler with this grey scale; he’s used to using scissors, but just fucking wait until his claws and bared fangs reveal it’s true power - that talent to destroy any weakness that could be taken advantage of.

The tall child foolishly declares that living is the act breathing, having a heart beat, having a brain that commands and thinks and cares. Death is the absence of all these things. A once collected circle has now become an empty hole, waiting for the correct functions to fill it up again. For all things fundamental, that is a technically correct assessment.

But alive is also a feeling. An emotion. What would you call an old, pitiful man lying in a hospital bed with the melanin sucked from his skin, as if he’d been bitten by a vampire, and those several pointless machines looping the same beeps like a pop song, just trying to keep the air steady into his lungs. What would you call the blood invading his brain, clawing at his neurons, making those important wires all dissolved until all that’s left is a puddle of a man. You can’t _undissolve_ functions of the brain. In every emotional sense of the matter, he is gone. Now , there is a body living by the bare minimum.

If following his own logic, then yes, Goro is alive. He talks, he feels, he grits his teeth through TV talk shows and the white as snow smiles, says _yes sir_ and _no sir_ to adults. He laughs occasionally, when it’s most socially acceptable to. That’s what you do when you’ve been caged into iron bars behind innocence; you study, and you practice, and you perfect it till every vein in your body is screaming for you to stop the charade. Goro mumbles incantations in a suit on television, the ones that pose cheerful curiosity as if he hasn’t already cheated his way into solving the mystery. It’s not grey; he has to be black and white. To survive. To revenge.

If Goro had to say, there is no life and death in his public life. There are quick sparks of joy that last about as short as a virgin in bed. There’s breathing, and eating, and work, and sleep. Everyday there is nothing new, so feeling the middle ground of life and death is like drinking water; you do it to survive.

He watches himself go through the motions as if he were a poltergeist surveying a potential human host. It’s human nature to be your own voyeur.

There’s suffering and rage hidden in the attics of Goro’s soul, dusty from being kept in isolation for so long. Most times, he’s tempted to storm into the confines of that attic and cut the duct tape to the emotions with a machete, but only when Shido talks with such arrogance and never sees the irony in it. Which is almost always when he talks to his father. But Goro’s used to studying people rather than knowing them, so a cool smile and the reassurance of Goro’s loyalty seems to calm Shido down as if the grown fucking adult is a baby comforted by melodic lullabies. Shido doesn’t even deserve the label of “tall child”; Shido’s just one of those babies who’s born into constant spoiling and given an unlimited amount of tantrums (in which he always screams the loudest and destroys property the greatest until someone is able to pacify him).

At least Goro feels something, even if it’s as destructive as a bomb and as sharp as a splinter.

It’s liberating, really. It’s the only emotion he’s encouraged to let loose in the grey matter. Others let loose by buying themselves that gallon of ice cream they didn’t need, or purchasing that pack of cigarettes after staying clean a whole week. No, something that can only be defined as sinister is Goro’s definition of self care.

Being alive is hedonism.

There’s always that hard snap that breaks inside Goro when he uses his own psychotic meltdowns against him. It’s beautiful in the way the public doesn’t like, the way things shouldn’t be, and maybe that’s the real thrill of it all. Creak, crack, _snap_ . It’s that adrenaline, blood gushing moment where death cradles Goro in her coarse hands. It’s the sound of a tree limb being severed from its host by the winds of Hell. Your mind and body beat, pulse, _fuse_ into the same rhythm, same desire. When the same event happens in the same type of environment, humans become conditioned and no different than Pavlov’s obedient dogs. And yet, Goro always experiences that euphoric bliss in sinful rage.

There’s slicing and thundering of blood that _must_ belong to Goro, because he’ll be damned if a shadow gets the only source left of his satisfaction in violence. His screams and screeches roar across the palace’s battle grounds, so fast and loud and in time as a drum that it sounds no different than a machine gun hammering bullet after bullet. It reminds him of the electrifying screeches of the subway as another lopsided corpse drives itself into a wall, taking the lives and happiness from bustling citizens inside. Deadly. Viscous. Tragic. Erotic.

Everything about the black goo that splatters on his clothing like paint across a canvas gets the blood pumping. _Intoxicating_. It hums to a pitch only Goro can hear, one so howling and squeaky just like Tokyo’s scowling, screeching tracks underground.

There’s something so enticing about the forbidden. Addiction is born from something you want but cannot have. Goro feels one with Eve in the garden every time he takes a crunch into his own custom-made cherry apple. Juicy, succulent, that madness he named love.

Afterwards, there’s this quiet and muted grey that exists after bloodshed. Silence, except for the labored breathing Goro was gripping like a safety net during battle. A moment of clarity and tragedy and all things human twisted into oxygen, oxygen as clear as glass. His body is still and statuesque, paralyzed by his brain that forces him to put an ice pack on his spasming heart. It’s haunting. It’s beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful. It twitches down his spine and slides to the heels of his feet like water from the arctic; shockingly cold, always leaving Goro with a shiver.

Then, there’s nothing at all.

Afterwards, reality hits him in the face like a baseball bat swinging for a homerun.

Goro continues to chase that nameless violent drug that makes him _alive_ in blacks, whites, and greys. In a life full of walking and light, fleeting jogs, a sprint is _exactly_ what he needs. Amidst all the violence, the gaping wounds and howls, Goro feels like an Olympic runner; free, _so goddamn free_ he could take God’s throat in his hands and vigorously squeeze.

And despite all that gorey violence, Goro finds the same wicked sanctuary in between the tender thighs of a woman.

It’s certainly different from what a typical battle is for him. That doesn’t mean the thrill lessens its iron grasp on his body each time he indulges himself in it.

In fact, it’s the opposite of that sickly sour sadism. For this, it’s that hazy nonsense that trails wet, intoxicating kisses down his neck.

Goro knows it’s entirely irrational and could potentially fuck up his plans for revenge; there’s no room for vulnerability in the game he plays. It feels good the way sleeping next to a fireplace does; it’s warm and electric, with dreams bubbling up inside his head until he falls deeper, deeper into the soaked heat that is flame. The temperature builds and pops and boils in a dream where he’s running, so he thinks the sweat that sticks to his skin like hot glue is all just a dream’s concoction. If you sleep long enough in desire’s haze, you’ll already be dead before you ever get the chance to wake up again. Third degree burns devour the body viciously and without a trace of remorse, just like a starving cannibal on the loose.

There’s no room for that.

But Goro just can’t keep himself away; to destroy her existence in his life would compare to destroying all the bars in the world just to spite an alcoholic. Despite every grey stalking the back of his eyes, he keeps returning for more, knowing it will be the death of him in the end.

Fuck. How do you rid yourself of an illness you can’t define? At least, until his plan comes into fruition. Goro’s instinct is to kill with no mercy because that’s always worked in the past, but he hesitates with his finger on the trigger each time he _drowns_ deeper into her sweet moans, her breathless cries of his name, her big doe eyes frosted over with adoration for _him_ . _All_ for _him_. Drowning is fun when Goro already loves a good swim.

Eventually, his fingers prune up into dry raisins, and it stings harder than a biting slap to the face. It’s akin to waking up from a good dream into a sea of sweat suffocating the bedsheets.

Being alive is a curse.

Being alive is a blessing.

Fuck it. Logic doesn’t apply here - it shouldn’t _have to_. Goro already calculates every day like a masochistic accountant. All things considered, this is normal for a person his age, and even Goro can’t deny how good it feels to dip his toes into normalcy, the black and whites. Everyone copes differently - lust is one of the top three methods for a reason.

When Sae Niijima’s heels aren’t doing that obnoxious clickity-clackity noise that demand his attention throughout the workplace or when Shido isn’t blowing up his phone like he’s got a goddamn virus on his cellular device, he’s thinking about the plump flesh of her lips.

God, those fucking _lips_. Blacks and whites. How easy it is to surrender to instinct so carnal.

Goro recalls how they tasted like rich butter underneath his tongue, every taste bud savoring every inch of his dessert. Sucking and pulling on the puffy tissue with his teeth is that fat cherry on top of the sundae. He savors that sugary flavor with a bit of sour tang from blood, and he tosses more of his formerly fostered fucks away into the waste bins of his mind. The wetness coating her lips are the whipped cream; smooth, velvety, _suffocating_ sugar, and Goro always craves _more_ of it when he knows he’s already being spoiled. As with all sundaes, the best part of the delicacy is the oozing chocolate fudge, to which Goro connects to her moans. Rich, succulent, velvety. Goro loves to greedily swallow it all in his mouth because it feels so holy, it’s religious. Moans from his lover’s flowering lips are better than any fucking god he could manipulate himself to worship.

If there was a God, the type of God that people worship at temples, he would have graced Goro without a slight affinity for sweets.

Then Goro’s delightful day dreams are destroyed as stupid adults - tall children - pester him like buzzing mosquitoes on an otherwise pleasant summer evening.

“Akechi. Are you even _listening_ ?”, barks that ever so pleasurable Niijima sister that wakes up every morning determined to cause another problem for Goro. Her voice may be dark like tinted glass, but that barking that comes from Sae-san reminds Goro of a chihuahua - loud, bold, _far_ too noisy and yappy for a creature so insignificant in every possible situation. The urge to squash the very thing that ruined his delicious imagination nibbles at Goro’s lips, but he swallows it all down regardless because performing is an art he’s mastered. It’s truly despairing. He used to enjoy her company before the Phantom Thieves.

“My deepest apologies, Sae-san,” Goro sews and stitches up his scripted smile, seams pulled so tight they ache on his face. He’s got those bulletproof white teeth lined up like perfect pearls, so bright they blind any idiot to his facetious charm. “I got caught up in my own theory train of thought surrounding the Phantom Thieves. Your own insight proves quite useful to mine. Please, forgive me on this occasion”, he responds agreeably, just the right amount of agreeable to satisfy Sae’s demanding ego.

Satisfaction sparkles in his superior’s eyes, and if that wasn’t enough, Niijima sings a hum that communicates forgiveness. “You are forgiven. I did make you stay late last night, after all.”

Yeah. After _all_.

As fucking _if_ Goro should have to apologize when the identity of the Phantom Thieves are already known to him; underneath all those handmade lies, there’s Akira Kurusu and his gang of incompetent imbeciles. The loud mouthed brats have only just barely scraped by Sae’s radar because of Kurusu, and without him, they’d follow the orders of anyone who threw them a bone and told them to go play fetch. The irony isn’t lost on Goro here, but at least he knows that his resolve compared to the Phantom Thieves is like blood against water; thicker, _stronger_.

Goro has to admit that Kaneshiro’s change of heart was a surprise, a trump card even he hadn’t predicted, like playing a joker in Tycoon and having it torn to shreds by a three of spades. Goro detests losing almost as much as his father, and when morning comes to fruition, he’ll strike back with a surprise of his own.

He just has to enjoy his night off.

“Listen, you go home and get some rest. Although the average person wouldn’t be able to notice, you’re a little off your game today. I’ll work the rest of the night, but I expect you to be fully prepared to interrogate Kaneshiro’s crew tomorrow. Understand?”

The one thing Goro appreciates about Sae-san is her directness and obvious avoidance of pity. Sae’s seen her fair share of horrors and has downed it all stone-faced, as if she were chugging a bottle of straight vodka. Niijima’s stopped caring about the truth of justice already; he’s seen the infected wound of her heart, a grand casino rotten with corruption, like it were a scab with bacteria, leaking out puss and false truths.

What Goro finds funny is Sae’s willingness to display such a repulsive sight on her sleeve. _Tall child._

“Thank you for understanding. Good luck, Sae-san. I believe in you.” The counterfeit sugar in Goro’s tone is so rich it makes him want to gag. Funnily enough, Niijima buys into it mindlessly as if she’s a shadow marching around mementos, so much so that it makes her look like _she’s_ the one falling for the tricks of a tacky casino.

His silver haired superior gives Goro a curt nod and marches herself to her train home, like she’s the fucking Joan of Arc leading France to God’s soul-saving salvation.

Typical of an erratically narcissistic palace ruler.

A perky polite text tone unclogs the stingy cotton from Goro’s ears, its sound so unremorsefully blinding that it startles him for a second. Hastily pulling out his phone from his slack’s pocket, the display screen brightens with a familiar name he’s moaned like a whore in the privacy of his bedroom. _Fuck_ , all it takes is a notification and Goro’s weak with wicked _want_ , want so determined that it untames the beast dwelling behind his mask.

There’s a sick bond between this lust and the one Goro experienced during the sexual awakenings of his preteen years; it’s so confidential, so _shameful_ of the detective prince, that Goro wants to construct the world’s most complicated lock, just so he can bury it all so far under the soil that it reaches the earth’s core. In those isolating adolescent days, it was a secret so intense that Goro only shared it with his sick, wanton body. Now, he shares it with another body just as aching as his own. Goro loves that the ache isn’t superficial like former fucks. This is _special_.

Goro’s ability to make him go mad has only been reserved to himself - until _her_.

His own weaknesses shouldn’t entice him the way shadow’s weaknesses do.

Goro then realizes that his racing thoughts keep him in a limbo of suspense. He’s _never_ this slow.

His index finger furiously twitches as he presses the bold message icon, only to see a text that drives him foolishly psychotic, unlike his calculated psychosis in the metaverse.

“Are you coming tonight…? Please? I want to go farther. I need to go farther. I need you, Goro.”

Five short sentences. That’s all it takes to make his groin growl hellishly with hunger. It’s goddamn shameful how Goro’s lust has such an awfully enormous appetite, considering his taste for erotic compaionship is anorexic.

Does she even know she’s challenging the lion in his own cramped cage? Does she _enjoy_ the dangerous game she’s playing? Goro will have to determine that later when he interrogates her underneath the sheets. The farthest boundary they’ve ever torn through together has been his fingers choked and soaked in the fire of her cunt, or her inexperienced, but nevertheless passionate hands tugging and teasing his tall cock. Sexual progress has moved at a snail’s pace, and Goro’s been okay with that, because he desires nothing more than for her to be at full pleasurable potential before he makes love to her. Satisfying the murderous thump in Goro’s heart can only occur if she’s enjoying his effort as much as he’s enjoying her.

If he thought turning his mind into homicidal mush was cohesively exhilarating and exhausting, then what the fuck is _this_? Madness is only madness if you lose yourself in the process, but for the first time, Goro’s madness is cradled in the hands of his lover’s. This feeling’s all so tragically Shakespearean that Goro suspects the former playwright must have written a Sonnet about it. 

Goro predicted that when this moment came, _he’d_ be the one in control of the blacks and whites, but he’s put himself in a game where he can’t win no matter how much he snarls and seethes for victory. Goro’s gift from this battlefield is the instinct to please her, _earn_ her approval, acceptance, and that pesky thing called _love_. The mere suggestion of her mouth moaning from erotic ectasy, her voice carelessly cracking out a cry of his name - it’s the final straw for Goro’s pride to wither away like flowers in the cold winter. He feels every sensation of hunger as if he were losing his virginity all over again.

Goro’s fingers tremble like trees in a hurricane as he pulls himself together, just enough to respond.

“I’ll be right there.”

Perhaps Goro would bother with formalities if he wasn’t sloppily stumbling his way through the grey-scaled spectrum just to fight for air. How he took the privilege of breathing for granted. His body’s instinctual reaction has formed a stiff sculpture in his pants, tangible evidence of how fucking _desperate_ he is for some sultry affection. Goro’s briefcase will have to do as a shield; he’ll be damned if he delays his worship any moment more because some sadistic paparazzi decided to snap a pic.

Maybe Goro doesn’t need to bother with formalities, anyways. He has reason to believe that she likes winding him up as if he’s one of those old retro toys. Her eyes stare and drag across every physical reaction from Goro she can spot; he’s noticed her favorites are the slick sounds that slide from his tongue. They range from pretty moans to tar-black snarls, and she specifically gets a rush from the latter, because Goro always feels her heat contort against his naked thigh, and her hands always tighten their resolve to become more precise in efforts to please him. When they make eye contact as they fuck without Goro inside her, her look stands with his as equals, and it’s as if she _knows_ all his dirty secrets he’s fought tooth and nail to conceal - but it splashes away into a sensual fog as quick as a wave crashes into the shore. It’s a game the two of them must play, though they’ll never verbally acknowledge it. Goro thinks that’s one of the factors that keeps him crawling back, because if there’s anything that gnaws at Goro more than hate, it’s a good mystery.

Aditionally, everything about that text admits an aura of primal need; Goro can smell the powerful aroma of sweat and sex on her bare body already. He’s tried lots of colognes and perfumes in the Shibuya underground mall, all easily forgettable, yet the scent of her sex is one fragrence he’d have to have amnesia to lose memory of. It’s so strong he salivates at the mouth, because underneath all that gargoyle stone, he’s just another animal needing what an animal needs. Goro hates and loves it. It pinches him in the right and wrong places. Masochism isn’t his typical style, but neither is black, and that’s the color that suits him the most.

Fuck, why does the train always seem to move so goddamn slow when there’s an actual place he has to be? Is that what those passengers in mementos feel like when they file seamlessly into single file lines? Secretive, boiling impatience in their guts threatening to explode, only to keep it at bay behind their face and lodged in their throats? It’s a prison. That’s the only word Goro can describe this subway ride as. He’s chained to sluggish apathy of time, his eyes boring a hole through his phone’s clock as Goro counts the minutes, seconds, milliseconds since his lover’s text. The time wears on his body like he’s clothed in dirty underwear - so fucking uncomfortable and sticky, and he’s so fucking impatient to discard it. This is no longer a matter of desire - Goro’s satisfaction from her own has manifested into a reality of _need_.

There’s a knot of wild screams Goro’s belly, twisting in gorish horror like how a limb hauntingly flops when it breaks. It pains him to be kept waiting from her, so much so that his darker persona in his head, Loki, jokes about causing another subway accident later for whichever imbecile conductor is in charge. That tanglement of screams unknots into cruel snickers, and all Goro can do is swallow and focus on exchanging body heat with the one woman who’d listen to his sins and not run away in fear.

What’s awaiting him?

Thighs, breasts, ass. Puffy pink lips, puffy pink cheeks. A charming neck coquettishly pleading to be scorched with an assault of kisses. Doll eyes nauseatingly sick with alluring erotica. Mutual magnetic obsession. 

_You fit into me, like a hook in an eye._

Then there’s the subway announcer and the door opening and the striking sound of Goro’s heels smacking against the stairs that gets him closer to freedom. That gets him closer to her.

The summer night’s breeze should be refreshing and nostalgic for easier times, but instead it’s humid, stifling, and disgusting. It’s as if the weather had synced to Goro’s own physicality - all of it is identical to his skin sobbing with sweat. The climate just increases the severity of Goro’s itch he can’t currently scratch, and he hears his heart pound against his chest like a hammer hitting a nail. It’s barrellingly loud, reminding him of a firing shotgun. His slacks are now strangling his cock, as if his pants had grown hands just to squeeze the life out of him. Goro needs a blizzard-cold ice packet placed on his crotch, because if not, he’ll explode like an atom bomb before he even knocks at her door. 

_Damn her_ . Look how weak she’s made him. He’d sink his lovesick teeth back into her, but can’t find the spite he usually possesses. Forget revenge, all Goro wants to do is touch her, send her screaming into ecstasy, hear how good he’s doing and how much she loves him being good. Please, _please_ , tell him he’s good. Goro would let her twist a knife into his heart just to hear that he’s doing good.

Goro supposes his stomachache for proud validation comes from a famine of it in his early years. There was never enough of it in childhood - never enough praise, never enough love, and when Goro would grasp it, he’d have to lose himself every time to get it, whether it came from various ignorant foster parents or soulless orphanage organizers. He loves that she doesn’t hesitate to acknowledge his victories - everytime he fiddles with her clitories in the way that makes her a drowning seaship below, she’s whimpering those sweet words he craves to hear. _Yes, please, feels good, more._ He’s not even sure if her strangled gasps are pleas or demands, and quite frankly, it doesn’t fucking matter.

On his laptop, Goro had once skimmed a summary of the 5 love languages that existed across the sea of humanity, so if he had to condense his own emotion into one of 5 categories in this social theory, he’d rank words of affirmation as supreme. Physical affection comes in as a close second.

_Fuck, yes, right there, more._ Goro’s mind plays her wanton sounds from a radio in his brain that barely has a signal, and all he wants to do is get closer to the music. Better fucking yet, hear it pound against his eardrums once more, preferably until he’s on the verge of becoming deaf.

Selfishly, Goro’s attempted to reign in his own spoken arousal, knowing his sounds give her the same effect previously mentioned. He throws all caution away into a fire when he’s with her, and the scrapped remains he keeps are remnants of control. God rest her poor soul, she tries more than anything with her quick learning to make him moan like he does with her. Goro’s lake of verbal pleasure is sealed tightly with ice, but she stomps against the arctic barrier everytime she naughtily squeezes his balls and his tip. She gets that childishly triumphant look in her eyes when she pulls a groan out of him, as if she’s finally won that pesky prize contained in a claw machine, and it’s so coyishly _cute_ to the point where he’s almost exploded all over her pretty face several times.

Everything’s usually black, white, or different shades of grey. His lover lights a match speckled with what could possibly be some color. Goro lets it burn.

Goro’s graced with the entrance into her apartment complex building embarrassingly fast , soothing his dying pride as he considers the possibility that maybe, _maybe_ , likely, _rather likely_ , she needs him to be good as much as he needs to hear it. Goro pictures her legs spread wider than a glorious gate, her adorable thumb pushing and pressing against her swollen bundle of nerves that resembles a budding rose. He’s parched from the lack of her clit swimming in his tongue - it’s rather likely he’ll get a taste tonight, if his calculations on her lust are undeniably correct.

He likes his odds. He doesn’t like that his cock is throbbing and losing to the battle between himself and his pants.

His eyes go in and out of focus, and he pathetically lets out a pitiful whine when he envisions what’s awaiting him - her fat cunt spasming as she climaxes. Fuck, he’s getting light headed, and he isn’t even psychotic… yet.

Goro can wait just a bit longer. He can be good.

What’s the closest route to salvation?

Goro considers his options between the elevator and the stairs, and comes to the conclusion that although he may get there faster with the stair route, he won’t be able to stop himself from looking like a dog sprinting on all fours. It’d be that same high Goro gets when riding his bike down the occasional windy hills of Tokyo’s street, his body as fast as a lightning bolt, and he loves it so much he wishes he was an actual lightning bolt, a golden one radiating electricity. Crashing is exhilarating when you’ve got nothing left to lose; Goro’s reputation has his humanity held hostage in chains. He’ll break through his imprisonment, although not soon enough.

Elevator it is. Too bad the pulsating lava in Goro’s gut pushes back against his Robinhood resolve.

What’s awaiting him?

Those glorious glossy fluids flooding out of her small hole and into his soaked with sin hands.

_Goddamnit Goro, can you fucking last through this elevator ride, or is that asking too much?_

He needs to be good.

As Goro aggressively jams his fingers against the close door button, the cold steel of his briefcase brushes up against the scorching tent in his pants. Oh, _god_ . Just one touch creates a destructive tsunami in his gut. This time, he can’t trap the noisy _boyish_ moan that’s been pushing against his lips. He's suppressed the urge so long, and now it’s as if the sound of pleasure is rioting in the open air, the volume humiliatingly loud. Goro thanks the universe (although it seems to be pretty fucking indifferent overall on his behalf) that the door closed before anyone in the lobby could hear the cry of a man erragiously hungry for aphrosidiac affection.

Contrasting to the open space of her bedroom, the elevator is cramped, although both are equally as sweltering and sex-crazed. Her bedroom reminds Goro of those well-crafted jungles made for chimps at the zoo, one of those zoos that allows occasional privacy for residents; there’s humidity, primal sexual shenanigans, and everything he could ever want or need all wrapped into a shared space, all from a bond between two primates. There’s no one else, no voyeurs, just desire and need exchanged through tongues wetly twisting together. He would describe this elevator as those dumps shitty zoos have the audacity to call “enclosures”. Claustrophobic, suffocating, entirely oppressive. But unlike the public zoo Goro’s grown accustomed to, even the privilege to be wild in small environments is one he should be grateful for.

Goro’s fingers in his sweaty palms clench indecisively, thinking that this ride cannot last much longer, but the ravenous hurricane in his crotch wins this battle. His fingers fuzzily stumble down his chest and onto his zipper, and then there’s the satisfying _zip_ of small liberation from his sexual prison. What follows the unzipped pants is even better - that goddamn elevator has finally carried him to the holy ground.

Even if it’s just a hallway to an apartment, it’s identical to how Goro felt walking through the pews at Japan’s oldest cathedral during a business trip to Nagasaki; time slows to the pace of altruistic holiness, and in these halls, everything is welcoming in its own special brand of beauty. Sanctuary cloaks him in a blanket that feels like the home, a home he’s never had, a home he only can glimpse at through his late night dreams. Everything about that cathedral, this hallway, is a path to salvation, one he should tread carefully upon.

But Goro’s a heathen at heart. A really damned one, at that.

He propels himself toward her door like a baby bird’s first time flying - sloppy, and heavily at the risk of falling. His knuckles do not hesitate to knock demandingly, almost as if his hands are screaming her name. He knows how frantic he appears because being good is an insane goal, and by the fact that her eyes are as big as the moon when she skims his body overflowing with _soul_. 

His lover studies the unsightly detective prince in a quick flash, as if she were skimming notes before a big exam. Her eyes are analytical like a private investigator, but oddly enough, warm like a hug. If Goro had to describe it in his sex clogged mind, it looked like amazement and adoration mixed into a color of rose madder. A serpent of fire and ice slivers down his neck as the awestruck gazes reverberate between the two of them, and for once, being stared at makes him feel understood. Not judged.

It’s _incredibly_ arousing.

She’s got that crimson colored lip gloss delicately spread across her supple, parting lips, and the flesh is so inviting Goro can’t help but to close the empty space between their bodies with a biting kiss. She breathily gaps at first, like all the oxygen in her bedroom has been stolen from her. For an instant, Goro feels like he’s disappointing her for not being pleasant and good, all until she bites back, equally as passionate, and sucks at the mark on his bottom lip to heal his developing wound. He feels her tongue glisten across his bruised lip as if her mouth were a hot mop soaking up a sopping wet mess. Now it’s Goro’s turn to have the air kidnapped from his lungs, and although it should feel scary, Goro has never felt the way he _should_ feel about things.

Goro _should_ be wasting no time dawdling on his quest for pleasure after sprinting to get to this exact sensation. Goro _should_ be grinding his clothed cock against her clenched cunt until he feels her thighs transform into wobbly sheets of plastic from pleasure. Goro _should_ be unzipping her skirt and gasping for air underneath the powerful scent of her sex. And yet, every time her lips squeeze like an anaconda snake against his own, he is helpless from the tingling affection she graces him with.

Goro can feel flushed fingers slide into his hair before they loop tightly around his loose cinnamon waves, and the remnants of control he had dissolve into a puddle as he moans a curse into her mouth. She swallows the saturated sound eagerly and it scratches Goro’s brain in the right spot, leaving his mind to release a tsunami of oxytocin that drenches his pounding erection in precum. When Goro’s intuition senses that the need to please is mutual, not only is any seed of doubt gone - his need to _pretend_ is gone.

It’s not like Goro was good at hiding it. Even the second coming of the detective prince falls victim to his body acting on its own accord.

Her breasts stick to his chest while he wordlessly asserts himself and pushes her to the bed. At this point, Goro’s confident she doesn’t mind, not when she joyously squeaks like a mouse with cheese when their bodies fall together to safety. Her legs are tangled like knotted hair around Goro’s waist and once again, a moan plops out of his mouth and onto the flesh of her neck like slime. She violently quivers underneath his saliva as if he’s dropped an ice cube on her supple skin.

_Shit_ . Every vein in his body has been lit aflame, like his pumping blood was just some mere coal waiting for a match to push it to life. This is what Prometheus _must_ have felt when he first discovered fire and promptly stole it. Goro’s only caught pathetic sparks in previous sexual encounters, and in the past with her, it’s admittedly been giant flames. But this - because of the combination of her sexy text message and his insatiable irritation from daily life - _this_ feels like a revelation so Godlike no man should have access to it. Prometheus was a fucking idiot who was sentenced to eternal torture, but Goro understands _why_ he stole fire now. Once you discover fire, you can never part with it. It feels good, and feeling good, especially now, is being alive.

He can definitively answer his inner critic now.

Then, there’s the need to pull back and breathe. Goro’s frustration manifests into a blade against his condition - his sex _hurts_ from all the waiting and delays. It’s like a hornet’s nest has fallen into his lap; goddamn him for being human when all he wants to do is slave away at making her scream. Patience is a virtue and he is losing it every second, but Goro can try again and again to grasp it. He’s not a quitter.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale. _Stop thinking in black and whites._

Goro wants to be like the dalai lama when it comes to eating her out - he’s got that thoroughness, dedication, and enthusiasm that’s perfect for someone as beautiful as herself. He’s always been a perfectionist; it’s evident in the layout for his food blog, his signature black gloves without a trace of filth on them, his explanations for his numerous solved cases. It’s only natural that it’d spill into his sex life like like gasoline; sticky and incesscant. He has to be good. Perfect. If Goro gave up on being a perfectionist, he’d surely die.

He must have been sporting an egregiously contemplative scowl during his inner monologue because he hears her usual struggled gasps short circuit into confused, slow breaths. She’s staring at him, probably looking at him like he’s some sort of new-age painting she has to concoct meaning to. Ever aware of the changing atmosphere, Goro snaps his head up like an owl, and _wow_ , despite her nosey nature, she is a fucking sight to behold.

Her cheeks are flushed a bright cherry red, so bright that Goro would have guessed she’d been out in the snow before she was here with him. Her hair has been freed from previous constrictions of looking presentable; it’s loose and beginning to look dampened from gradual building sweat. The side of neck is now flushing with bits of lilac and lavender, soon to be darkened into a royal purple thanks to Goro’s suctioning lips. Goro admires his impressive handiwork, but not for long; her skin now looks to be as if she’s melting from excitement, as now she’s oozing a golden glow from her body. It’s perfect, _so_ , so perfect, just as Goro had wanted it to be.

He has to remember they’re just getting started.

The arousal in his belly is as taught as a bowstring. It pains him more and more. He needs his belt off, and the head of his cock pinched underneath his fingertips.

“You’re very pretty, you know,” she whispers wispily to him. Not as a compliment, but as a fact.

Goro flushes so intensely it’s _mortifying_ . That’s supposed to be _his_ line. It’s like he’s 13 and having his first kiss behind his school all over again. It’s not uncommon for him to be told he’s charming, or handsome, or both. He hears it all the time from women on TV two decades older than him, and then from the girls in Shibuya he could easily be the older brother of. They always say it in that sickening syrupy way, the way one might coo at a puppy on the street. Day in and day out, these compliments build up his mask. But they’re never facts; just fun little tidbits you’d read about in a magazine. No one has ever told him he’s _pretty_ , and especially not as an indisputable _fact_.

Not only does Goro’s cock twitch, but so does his heart. _Gross_.

“Is the simple sight of my face enough to satisfy you? If so, then-”

“Yes. Yes, it _is_.”

Goro has to sink his teeth into the already sensitive flesh of his tongue just to keep _that_ high pitched keen covered up. Her honesty is _so_ refreshing - it’s identical to those swigs of cold water Goro drinks after a particularly exhausting session of bouldering. It’s that drive to keep on going, that one extra push he always needs when he’s about to retire for the night. Honesty is so rare to find these days, and Goro acknowledges he’s just been making it more difficult to achieve in his life. He isn’t willing to give this up; once you have an honest connection in your hands, you squeeze it and you don’t let go.

“You don’t have to hide your sounds from me. I like it when you’re honest with me.”

What the _fuck_? Is she a mind reader? Goro’s awfully good at putting up illusions to trick others into thinking they’ve psychoanalyzed him correctly, but it seems to never work on her.

Instead of a verbal retort, Goro’s eyes sweep across the curvature of her rising plump breasts, up and down, up and down, and it’s all so swirly from his dazed vision it makes him feel like he’s hypnotized. He makes it clear her ripe body will be taken care of by licking his lips, savoring the sight of her as if she’s a marble statue sculpted by God himself. Goro releases a bright light of determination into his eyes, signifying his dedication in doing his utmost to pleasure her. She acknowledges his perseverance. She gulps. Slowly. But with the weight of cement in her throat.

“What is it that you wanted? To go further, yes? Please, tell me what’s on your mind, baby…,” Goro tosses away his lighter tone for his natural gravelly voice, sighing deeply in desire, and relishing in the hot pink flush of her cheeks. He coaxes a gloved but warm hand to the innard mellow flesh of her thigh, smooth and soft like vanilla. There’s another tingle in Goro’s toes, one that climbs into his belly as he feels her liquese underneath his inviting touch. Her body instantly lights up like a Christmas tree, and Goro loves knowing he was the one who plugged the power in.

She slides her tender hands back into Goro’s hair again and curls the locks with the various dances of her fingers. It’s Goro’s turn to festively burst with light; his former, and better self would have scoffed with disgust if he knew that his slacks were now entirely _sopping_ with precum. Here stands the arc and here lies the flood. It takes him a second to realize he’s panting as well; how _wet_ he’s become for having his hair toyed with, how fucking _powerful_ the sensation is when he’s let his guard down in front of her. Goro’s lover is not even telling him what she wants, she’s just presenting his challenge with her own. _Fuck_ , he loves it. It gives him permission to be greedy back.

Goro’s hands alternate between unbuttoning her school blazer and squeezing the dough-like breasts in his palms, his steady movements ever on the edge of becoming feverish. There’s a gasp from her that’s as sharp as a blade, and then her fingers clench on the back of Goro’s head like she’ll lose him if she lets go. Mutual moans are distributed to each other, and they can both feel hot labored breath reverberate across their faces. It’s all so beautiful, and for once, Goro knows the answer to the question, _‘what is art?’_

It’s this. It’s _definitely_ this.

There’s an electrifying _woosh_ sound admitted from the remnants of her clothing when they’re finally discarded to the bed, and although it sounds like the wind, it strikes Goro like a whip. It’s like that thrill of electricity that pricks at your finger when you touch it against a playground’s slide in mid August. The compulsion to feel that prickling shock again is obsessive. His breath speeds up to the impact of a heater on fullblast, hot and incessant for more. She likes what he’s doing and he loves the way she shows her gratitude even more - three of her fingers have begun to scratch approvingly in that area where Goro’s head dips to form his neck. She doesn’t even need to touch him properly to have him whining like a dog.

Goro swirls his index around the mounds of her breasts before edging upwards at a curious pace towards her nipples - he teases her on purpose, although not maliciously. He simply wants her to feel the same build up he’s been feeling, so that when she cums, she’ll feel the Big Bang erupt into a solar system in her gut. Goro wants all 5 of his senses to bear witness to the bursting euphoria in her, the moment where everything inside and outside of her explodes from galaxies into stars into space dust.

Goro feels insecure about the fact that he’s only squeezed a few moans from his lover, so his fingers evaporate from a slow melody to a ballad. He grapples the tender flesh of her nipples, then twists, as if the puffy skin were knobs that control the radio volume in a car. The effect is instantaneous - an enthusiastic yelp seeps from her mouth and onto his hair where she drags and pulls like a child in a game of tug of war. Goro feels a forest fire of validation consume his nerves as if his body were made of trees, all easily flammable and succumbing to a love he gravely craves. 

While Goro’s slender digits are occupied cruelly curling her diamond hard nipples, his mouth lovingly peppers kisses from the upper half of her flashing-hot neck to the bottom half. Goro kisses the same way she loves to pull at his hair - like if he doesn’t do so now, he’ll never get the chance to do so again. Goro inhales through his nose but exhales through his mouth, making sure she feels his dragon-like breath against her neck. His lover’s tugs are entirely lost in drunken lust, while his movements are in that weird limbo between calculated and crazed. Goro’s body snarls at him to tug his belt off and demand to be shown the same love he’s given her, but his heart could never. His duty above all else is to _please_.

The more he skillfully toys with her chest, the more she pants like a dog in heat. Goro can feel the goosebumps on her nipples quickly spring up on the skin like frost on winter grass. As the forest fire in Goro’s body destroys more and more wildlife, Goro holds onto one last sturdy oak tree in his gut to keep himself focused. Then, unexpectedly, she grinds her clothed cunt against his trousers, and something searlingly _white-hot_ splatters all over his mind. The oak tree snaps as hungry flames devour it, and then, the tree withers into crisp ashes that reek of smoke.

Goro growls like a stomach that’s been denied food for too long. She cries like she’s fighting for her life.

Time moves as fast as a speeding rocket after that. All Goro wants to do is to get to the main dish. There’s the rabid tossing of his coat on her floor, her holy hands worshipping his stomach and chest after his dress shirt is discarded equally as frantic compared to his coat, and the silver clinks of his belt that stir when he discards his body of it and throws it to Hell. Goro has every right to be impatient after being kept in isolation for so long from her touch, and his hands reflect this mentality when he grabs at her plump thighs and pushes them apart. Undeniably, Goro is a desperate disciple, one who obediently falls to his knees in this lovesick insanity to worship.

His fiery breath slithers like a gluttonous snake across her the inside of her bare thighs, and oh _fuck_ , he can smell her cunt’s strong, unique scent through lace thin black panties. Goro feels his chest constrict and tighten like a double fisherman’s knot, as if his lungs are losing a war against her aroma. He may have liberated himself from his slacks, but not from his briefs, because if he did, he’s not sure he’d have the self restraint to inhibit himself from slamming his pulsing length inside her tight pussy.

She gasps at his teasing ministrations like she’d been hit with a bitterly chilled snowball, and Goro _aches_ , he aches so much it puts a blade into his heart. She’s almost ready, and although she’s silently answered his question by not protesting his head in between her thighs, Goro needs to hear the confirmation spoken out loud. He swears he’ll be hers to the end of time if she gives him that verbal validation.

“What did you mean by, ‘I need you?’” The words come out much smaller than anticipated, as if they were only meant to be seen and heard under a microscope. Unconsciously, Goro’s fingers squeeze her thighs again, although this time it entirely comes from a place of much needed security rather than the foggy clouds of want. Goro’s scared to look up from his prostrate position to his barely upright lover - it’d be like he was a young boy again, fearfully checking for monsters underneath his bed. It’s childish and downright stupid considering he’s faced real life monsters on bloody battlefields, and yet, here she is, the one opponent that still shakes Goro to his core.

How he wishes he could look up.

Goro’s lover releases an intrigued exhale out of her nose. It almost sounds frustrated at the beginning, hopefully because she’s been denied his slick tongue, and not because his heart is a burden to her. The rest of the sigh sounds curious, but not curious in the way a scientist studies a specimen. It’s more akin to a sigh of someone who wants to know what’s wrong. Someone who _cares_. A miniscule amount of butterflies ripple their wings around in his stomach at the hopeful thought, but most of them are still kept in jars below the open surface.

A soft palm does what Goro cannot do himself, cradling his face like he’s made of glass, then tilting his face upwards so that he’s forced to meet her eyes. The tender, loving contact makes him bite down on his bottom lip to fend off against a timid whimper that needs release. Goro manages to fend the noise off, but when he actually meets her eyes with his, the whimper pries itself out of his mouth for freedom.

She’s looking at Goro like he’s the best goddamn thing to land on planet Earth, and although her eyes could be scolding him, telling him he’s stupid for even questioning his necesscity in her life, Goro thinks they’re kind and understanding. That sounds about right. He’s never seen compassion up close and personal before, and never ever in an intimate setting. So, Goro lets his intuition guide him for this situation, because no amount of logic or facts could give him a resolute answer.

Goro and her realize simultaneously that she’s forgotten to blink in this moment, so she blinks in quick succession and clears the foggy care out of her eyes, only for them to return more striking than before. Her eyes are like diamonds; sharp, sparkling, resolute, and unbreakable. Her stare into his own makes Goro paralyzed; his limbs feel like rubber, and his eyes sticky and warmly wet like hot glue. More butterflies dwelling in his stomach break out of their glass confinements and flutter around in romantic liberation. Goro flicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, then tickles himself using the muscle. He discovered a decade ago that that’s what keeps you from crying, and he feels blessed that his signature tactic works again, because he’s not sure if he could handle another embarrassment today.

“What did I mean? I meant that I need _you._ I need Goro Akechi and Goro Akechi _only_.” Her breath hitches for a second, then it evaporates as if the gasp never existed.

“I’m all yours if you’re all mine, Goro.”

An atom bomb drops in Goro’s stomach. It makes contact in his body, then explodes, then annihilates any self imposed restriction Goro had left to stop himself from worshipping her like the believer at heart he secretly is. There’s no more shackles and chains; the butterflies all swarm now.

Goro takes his cue and snaps his head back to her entrance. His tongue laps at her slick, utterly _wet_ entrance; _god_ , she is fucking _wet_. Goro chuckles a bit, almost choking with his mouth full of cunt, but nevertheless recalling the first time he’d pleasured her in his apartment, and how her face transformed into awe when she noticed the gigantic soaked spot she’d made on his former crystal white sheets.

_I.. didn’t know I could make such a mess_ , she swallowed thickly like a boulder of humiliation had gotten lodged in her throat. Goro laughed like the bastard he is and kissed her approvingly, loving the fact that she’d never had an orgasm like that until him. She was so sweet back then. She’s even sweeter now that Goro’s gotten a proper sample of her; _she_ _tastes like honey._

Goro puts all his focus into making his lover leave a damp puddle on the bed all over again.

His poor baby, he could tell she tried so hard to keep herself restrained, but she’s bucked her hips against his loving lips. Goro squeezes her thigh reassuringly, granting her permission to do it as many times as she likes, and she takes his offer immediately. He hasn’t even begun his licking assault on her clit yet, and she’s still spread eagle and wordlessly begging for him to continue.

Goro’s tongue tests the sensitivity of her clit, sliding his muscle rapidly back and forth, and the heavy clump of nerves feels more perfect than he could have ever imagined. She’s swelling under his hot mouth like a mosquito bite, pulsating, red and thick. Comparable to a juicy steak, too. Goro feels his throat dry like a desert in the sun because her cunt is wetter than an ocean, stealing all of the moisture out of his mouth and onto her soaked sex.

His babydoll keens and groans like a feral cat, alert, alive, and wild due to the tango his tongue does with her clit. Goro bows his head further as if he’s in prayer, yet there is nothing holy about the movements of tongue; instead he moves sinfully, flattening and sweeping against her swollen source of pleasure like he was fucking born to do this. He applies pressure, pressure more suffocating than the ocean water’s deepest layer of sea. Unsurprisingly, another flood of her arousal splashes him in the face, and he can’t get enough of it.

He shows his gratitude by humming against her cunt, knowing that the vibration will send blinding electricity throughout her body until it pounds against her belly, threatening an orgasm so powerful her body will beg to relive it for days.

Goro’s could be rough and mean, but the thought disgusts him. His tongue repeats a pattern against her clit, a loop of swirling and sucking firmly to satisfy her. That’s it - firm. Goro tongue fucks her like how he usually thinks: commanding and uncompromising. He feels her breath inhale and exhale rapidly like she could be having a panic attack, but he knows it’s all from wanton delight. He’s insistent that his love let go of all inhibitions only to him - it’s only Goro Akechi who can make her an incoherent dishevelment, and it’s only him that he can see her come undone like this.

“ _Goro_ ,” she wails, tossing and turning on the bed like she’s having a night terror. His name sounds like a prayer on her lips. Goro lets his righteous passion fully consume him, his lips feeling like a flaming sword, his mind the angel wielding it. His suckling against her clit could now be described as the feeling one gets before a storm - the way the air smells faintly of rain, the way the clouds huddle together like penguins in the cold, the way there’s an urge to drown in the downpour as you lay on your back. There’s electricity between his mouth and her cunt, so much so it reminds Goro of the first strike of lightning by the storm. Everything’s loud, boomingly loud, and he’s struck by that lightning bolt every time she gasps, whines, tugs, and spasms underneath his enthusiastic ministrations.

Goro, never failing to stop his tongue’s movements, shifts his weight, the sensation in his legs screaming at him like a drunk man to do _something_ to release. The current situation and memories from previous rendezvous collide and swarm behind his eyelids. Her breasts bouncing like a beach ball from the force of his tongue fucking, the sight of her puffy pussy contracting when his breath fanned across her slit, the sounds of desperate need she no longer bothers to conceal, the addictive taste of warm and wet heat glistening down from his lips to his chin. It almost seizes him, getting him to slow down, but he _can’t_.

His precise left hand unfortunately does slow his tongue sucking down, but he cannot deny how fucking euphoric it is to finally fuck himself. When Goro forms a fist around his cock and pumps, he realizes he’s not only seeing stars, but _feeling_ them. They tickle his belly, then serpent their way down to his balls and swell several veins on his cock. There’s a billion sparks of adrenaline wildly cascading in and out of his bulging heat.

He makes up for the lost time meant to be spent satisfying her by quickly sucking then releasing urgently on her clit back and forth. His lover must have recognized what he’s doing to himself because a thick throaty moan erupts from her lips, then transforms into desperate keening and panting. Goro feels her tighten against his mouth, and it’s so restricting it reminds him of a rubber band being tied around his index finger, cutting off his blood flow circulation. Then, her pulsing red sex contracts on his tongue- _in out, in out, in out,_ rapidly, like his heart after a particularly bloody slaughter in Mementos.

Goro’s face is drenched. So are the bedsheets.

He feels his blood pulse and rush from his pounding brain to his starving belly. _There you are, baby, there you are._

After the crushing orgasm Goro gave her, she jerks away from his touch, obviously over sensitive for any even the gentlest form of contact. The tears of sinful delight, her deep gulps searching for air, and her sex crazed, yet grateful gaze are all enough to satisfy Goro. He wouldn’t mind if she fell asleep while he maniacally jerked himself off in her bathroom like a psychotic pervert. It’d be a bit frustrating, and Goro wants the favor returned more than anything, but he can cast aside his own lust for her own needs. He accomplished his ultimate goal: pleasing her till the point of passing out, and making her ruin her bedsheets with her own arousal.

How foolish of him to expect her to give up on him without a fight. Within seconds, his lover has pulled at his hips to straddle him. Electricity seizes Goro like a tight fist around a throat, making him unmovable and helpless from the touch. He stares in awe at her; her hair is wild like the woman she is, her skin is flushed, sparkling, and damp, and her eyes glisten, putting him under a spell. In fairy tales, a true witch has the power to enchant a man and make him hypnotized just from one stare. Here she is, Goro’s own little witch, casting a nonverbal spell on him that makes his body paralyzed like stone.

His lover trails a fluttering index finger drift down his chest, to his belly, and arrives at the beginning of his pulsating length. Goro feels so pathetic like this, but he can’t force himself to do anything about it. He’s trapped, motionless from her hex. He has her exactly as he’s dreamed of her many lonely nights before in the safety of his bed - untamed and _savage_. Something possessive and predatory flashes into her smile as her eyes cascade up from his bare collarbone, down to his lonesome cock that begs for even the chastest of kisses.

_Fuck_ , Goro can feel some of her liquid drip, drip, drop like a running faucet from his cheek to his chest. He doesn’t even have to look at her to know that she’s smiling like she won the fucking lottery. His legs tremble like the Earth’s crust during an earthquake, then they clench tightly from his hopeful imagination giving him the picture of her mouth stuffed full of his cock.

She leans down slowly, observing his length and making an _o_ shape with her mouth as she gets up close and personal with his sex. Sure, she’s seen it pulsate and twitch from several instances in her hands, but she’s never been close enough to _lick_ it. Her reaction to him is utterly adorable, as if she’s watching the stars for the first time. It makes those butterflies in his stomach dance all over again.

Goro feels _need_ throb stressfully in between his legs when she plants kisses on sweaty insides of his thighs, like she’s the world’s most gentle gardener. Somewhere in his heart, a vein twists and curls like knotted hair at the sight of her being so sugary sweet with him. She’s hungry for him, he knows that, yet she’s slow and careful like she inherently knows how sensitive he is by now. Goro struggles to not choke. This is worship, the same way he worshipped her: meticulous and kind.

“I’ve always wondered what it was like to have something so _big_ in my mouth,”she hums nervously, eyes blinking to his face and back to the ache between his legs. Goro’s cock twitches again, this time from the lewd comment. God, he just wants to show her, guide her head down so far she gags, feel that shock in his body that makes him squirm every time she chokes around him.

“Take your time,” Goro groans instead, knowing he’d never forgive himself from scaring the only precious thing in his life away.

He’s relieved when she doesn’t take his advice. Goro realizes that’s another reason why he likes her; she doesn’t mindlessly follow his words like the sheep of the public.

Refreshing.

Hesitantly, her tongue pokes out of her mouth, eyeing Goro’s length like a rather difficult puzzle she needs to find the pieces to. Blood pumps furiously to the tip of his cock because of those doll eyes looking up at him; she gasps naively when uncontrollable movement makes his manhood twitch. He’s both tamed and untamed in this moment; one part of him wants to instruct her, tell her what’s right and wrong through his groans and moans, while the other hellishly delights in yanking her head down by her hair and watching her choke as she envelops him with her tight throat. Robinhood and Loki shouldn’t be picking petty fights outside of the cognitive world, but they’re always pesky little brats who have never followed the rules anyways.

Goro’s so tangled in a web of his own thoughts that the sensation of something warm and wet startles him to the extreme comparable feeling of being waterboarded. Just in a good way. His lover’s mouth experimentally licks his base to his tip, watching him with bubbly eyes; is the staring for approval? Because she wants to see what he looks like? Both, probably, and he aches at the thought of such erotic desires. She charmingly licks him like an ice lolly, covering all the bases of Goro’s cock. So far, he’s had better, but nothing will ever compare to this sloppy loving lip service she’s giving him. It’s filled to the brim with genuine passion, so much so that it’s _leaking_ genuine passion, more powerful than any facade of love the very few seduced fangirls of the past had given him.

She stops her exploration to swirl her tongue all around the head of his cock, and _fuck_ , Goro feels so hopelessly dizzy, groaning and moaning with pure lustful need. His whole entire body feels like firewood burning, so ridiculously warm it’s pleasantly oppressive, like his being was meant to be eaten up by her tongue’s slick movements. Her tongue flattens and hardens against the tip, contracting like a pair of lungs, but instead of breathing, it’s with different scales of pressure. Her lips begin to suckle, yet her tongue’s motions stay strong with gyrating across the most sensitive part of him.

“Oh… _god_. Finally. I’ve fucking dreamt about your pretty mouth for ages, and it feels so good,” he groans erotically, and she flushes red like the rising sun.

Goro remembers what he thought earlier about sleeping next to a fireplace; fuck it, he could spend all day letting the heat envelop him, even if it means it will end in his demise. Who cares when it feels _this_ good?

He feels her plump lips pull away from his ripe cock, and actually growls and hisses like he’s some type of raccoon with rabies behind a city dumpster. Then, she glares. Really. The glare is a bit hurt, but it also passes well as a warning glare. It stings like he’d been striked bare with a belt. Goro’s not sure why it hurts so bad. Sure, it hurts him downstairs, but he feels something ugly and sad sizzle underneath his skin, as if his muscles were meat on a grill. Fool. He knows what it is.

How did he become so weak?

“I needed to breathe,” she pouts sourly, like her dessert had been spoiled. Goro thinks about how he shouldn’t have been so stupid to expect her to be a pro when in reality this is a first for her, and even without that regard, she is doing exceptionally well. Then, he thinks about how pouty she looks, and how beautiful she’d look with his cock stuffed in those exceptional lips. 

“Of course. Apologies. I’m eager, is all.”

She doesn’t buy the prince facade. She never has. Her eyes narrow like she’s been watching a particularly bad performance in a theatre, and Goro’s the main fuck-up actor who’s just making the play worse. There’s no point in improvising when he’s already let himself go previously with his tongue buried in her cunt and his hand toying with his length. Why the hell is he lying again? What more is there left to gain? To _lose_? 

_I’m all yours if you’re all mine._ The promise clings loudly around in Goro’s head like a church bell in the confines of a place of worship. Goro’s never made a promise before, but he’s willing to try anything at the moment to relieve this insatiable, borderline evil ache.

“Well, the truth is, you drive me up the walls insane. And it feels agonizing waiting so long, and here you are, all fucking naked and perfect, and I need release so badly it hurts. To say I’m eager is an understatement. So yes, I took it out on you. Don’t stop. Please, don’t st- _ah_!”  
  


This time, it’s new. There’s a smaller hand wrapped around his base, pumping up and down circularly to an unheard rhythmic beat, and a pink mouth sucking religiously, in that divine way men thousands of years ago jotted down into holy books. There is nothing more strong than a bond with mutual support and understanding; not even Goro’s almighty skills in the metaverse. His legs tremor like his speech, both repeatedly trying to function as intended, but notably failing against the actions of his lover. Her lips are incessant and inquisitive, noticing his sensitivity, keeping it in mind, then barrelling forward anyways like soldiers dying for a cause. It isn’t that her suckling or pumping is fast; it’s just _intense_.

Everything feels like when you’re cold, and then you jump into the shower, and then it’s too hot. He’s drenched with no time to adjust. It races across his skin, seeps its way into his skin, then into his veins, then to the blood flow directly to his heart. It’s blinding erotica tangled into wet, sloppy noises, and for once in his life, Goro’s okay without having the slightest glimpse of control. Her nimble hands begin to twist with the pumps, adding a whole new layer to his lecherous rapture as if his arousal were a cake.

The sight of her fluttering eyelashes and pursing lips makes Goro’s vision blur. The blur bounces around like a rubber ball in his abdomen, until it plops dramatically in the increasing inferno built in his belly. Goro’s cry is loud and desperate when she embraces more of him into her snug mouth. She’s like a mitten in the winter time. It’s such a tight fit, and before he knows it, his hips have moved with their own agenda to cum until there’s nothing left of him but fatigue.

There’s a surprised squeak from below, a stutter in her movements before she squeezes Goro’s cock like a stuffed animal. It’s just to stabilize herself against his fanatic motions. It’s _exactly_ what he needs. Another guttural moan comes to the surface after drowning in the depths of his throat. She catches onto the message Goro sends with his hips; he’s _close_.

_Please. Please please please, he’s so close, he can taste the static of sex on his mouth, please, please, please._

Her mouth travels to the tender flesh of his balls, sucking hard against them, and then it’s _happening_.

A tissue on the bedside drawer encapsulates his manhood entirely, but it cannot stop the internal eruption blasting lava throughout his bloodstream.

Goro’s vision dazes until he sees a whole new galaxy displayed across her bedroom walls, intricate designed stars waltzing in space. He can _feel_ this galaxy. His body blossoms, blooms; he is now a mere vessel for spring, as he’s transformed into a ripe flower. All this time waiting, waiting, and waiting - was his lover simply gardening him for when he’d look his most beautiful? Most _alive_? Is that giving his own special gardener too much credit? No. The loving look with golden speckles of amazement finally answers his question he posed to himself earlier in that subway; yes, this was planned, but from a place of desire to please rather than tease.

By the time Goro’s coming down from the high frequency curled in histoes, she’s kissing the inside of his thighs again, hungry now for soft afterglow rather than the previous display of animalistic lust. The kisses slothfully pepper upwards his body, leading towards his belly button, then his rising chest.

For a moment, there is no black, nor white. Not even Goro’s trustworthy greys. There’s color. An array of color blending into each other. It’s that vibrant rainbow peaking itself through the clouds, with the sun following close behind. There is no longer a war raging inside him for now; just the scent of sex, the fleeting sensation of loving kisses, and a spectrum of color. He feels himself relax into every devoted gesture, and every tender embrace of chromaticism.

Goro gets the sensation that he’s being studied again, his lover’s eyes scanning every hue of his sweltering body, leaving no stone unturned when she drinks in the sight of him, lethargic after a good fuck.

“You’ll be the death of me,” she mumbles to him, her hair a mess and her voice rough.

Goro’s mouth quirks into a devilish smirk. His voice, now darker than coal, leaves his tongue. “Promise?”

  
  
  



	2. How Far I've Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You remember why and how you fell in love with Goro Akechi. Even after recalling it all, it still doesn't click the way it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... surprise. I have more of this story I want to tell and here it is!! I know it's weird trying to go off of what was supposed to be a one-shot but I couldn't help it, I had too many ideas floating around on how to continue exploring how Goro would react in a relationship and how he impacts those he's in a relationship with. Thank you for the support on the first chapter. I can only hope that I can continue to live up to those expectations. 
> 
> No smut. Just flirting with an under current of angst

Public opinion is a weak and limber tree that bends and twists to Akechi Goro’s will. In the seculsional space of a bedroom, Goro becomes the tree, and your will reigns like a monarch.

Most people in your position would wear this achievement like a badge of honor - you wear it more like a promise ring, placing it down to your finger’s base and making sure the jewel will never get loose. 

You’ve discovered there’s an art to loving on someone, particularly Goro; perhaps, you lose yourself in it, spend hours dedicating yourself to it, grow frustrated when things don’t work out the way you thought it would. Every touch of your index finger to his jaw is a gentle stroke of a paintbrush, every quivered gasp is a deep blue mixed with white on an easel, and every time he groans, there’s dots of various neon colors plopped across the canvas of his body. You’ve transformed into a starving artist that craves creation like a seasick sailor with land. There’s peace in studying and striving to get better at a craft, but nothing has ever been as consuming on your mind as sharing secrets only the body can tell with none other than Akechi Goro. 

It’s troubling. It always _has_ been. There’s this feeling in your chest with him, and it’s far bigger than what your paintbrush can handle. It escapes from your heart and sneaks its way through your muscles until it has made camp on your bones. It cries, wails, then petulantly screams until you can no longer foster the ache inside yourself. At least, not quietly. The feeling exists mainly in the afterglow of little sexual adventures with Goro. It’s the recess in nature after a storm - the sun comes out of its shelter behind the guarding clouds, the flowers thrive after rain as striking as a sucker punch, the forest breathes with fresh life behind every inhale and exhale. However, that does not mean afterglow is when the emotion is the most vocal with its truth. 

Every time Goro’s fingers make a calculated move inside of you, you’re in the eye of a hurricane. There is chaos and there is bliss; you’re stuck in limbo between the two, waiting for when one spectrum tugs your soul to one side or the other. That ache in your bones releases a battlecry so powerful that your mouth is instantly struck down by its force. Your moans glow in the dusk of his bedroom like fireflies buzzing in the summernight. Your voice, almost unrecognizable when possessed by this much pleasure- it’s as hazed as October’s moon in the fog. You are all the seasons of the Earth under Goro’s sweaty hands and recently, his introduced tongue. Every hot spot in your soul is urgent for release; your thoughts snarl the mantra need, need, _need_ , until you’re screaming out vague incantations that only somewhat articulate the ripe desire in your heart. 

Then today, you’re in between his legs, savoring every movement of him underneath your mouth as if you’ve discovered a 6th taste recognizable by your taste buds instead of the familiar five. Sweet, sour, salty, bitter, umami, Goro. The best flavor a starving artist like yourself could ever be graced with. 

The truth is, an artist is a puppet controlled by their own easel, and your easel presents a special type of challenge that will always have the best of you before you have it yourself. 

What’s left of your voice afterwards is a meeker version of the girl who’d been wrecked from that feeling in your chest and bones. As before, the ache is always stronger when you see Goro’s eyelashes flutter against the sweat on his cheek, but you’ve lost your voice to the lovesick harpy inside you just seconds prior, so you settle with the yearning and let it ignite a fire underneath your flesh. 

“You’ll be the death of me.” 

“Promise?”

“Sure. A promise.” 

What a _prophecy._ You wonder if your detective prince lights a restless, consuming fire inside of everyone he knows. 

Goro’s teasing smirk threatens to fall victim to the warmer, kinder smile pulling at his lips. You feel like a pound of bricks and a pound of feathers; objects that should weigh differently based on gut instinctual association with the two options, but don’t, because they’re still just as heavy as the other. Like cats have the urge to meow to gain attention, you feel the need to kiss him hard just to savor that smile whole against your lips. You need all his focus on you, his lips connected with yours.

The smile fades back into that neutral intuitive expression faster than colored dye turns water into its own bottled hue. 

Briefly, something warm and wet itches at the corners of your eyes. You’re not sure why tears want to crash down against your cheeks, but either way, it’s fucking agitating that you have the urge to cry in the first place. Is it because the sex was amazing? Because you just received the best goddamn orgasm of your life and possibly returned the favor to your lover? No, it isn’t, and you realize it’s that ever so annoying ache playing with your heart again, as if you were a piano. 

It shouldn’t disappoint you. You’re used to being disappointed with Goro’s lack of sincerity. You know what that expression means; somedays it feels like having to buy something mundane like toothpaste. Otherdays, it feels like a knife sticking out of your side. On this occasion, it’s the latter. He’s leaving you as fast as he came to you, using a lie or a valid excuse to pacify you into acceptance. He’s very good at lying. He’s very good with coming up for reasons he can’t stay long. Goro knows the details of both so intimately that you’d think that the two were predetermined from his genetic makeup in the womb. 

At first, you couldn’t tell the difference between his lies and his truths. Most people your age couldn’t, evident by the amount of loyal fans that defend his image like knights for a king. Older people who have seen bullshitters like Goro could possibly spot the true nature. You’re a smart cookie, though. Slowly but surely, you’ve chipped away at his mask with a chisel. Each speckle of stone removed is like unlocking a new chapter in a video game; each time you learn more about his different strategies for deceitfulness is like leveling up. 

You’ve made some progress today. Under all that slick stone, there is a diamond of a man in there just waiting to be touched and explored. You felt that iron grip in your chest throttle your heart when Goro asked for reassurance, his eyes so big you could fall into them, like one of those giant puddles in the backstreets during a rainy day. Your little experiment of minor sexting had worked to your favor immensely, discovering that the mighty public figure was just as human, flesh and blood, as you. It’s selfish, incredibly selfish, and guilt pricks like a needle against your mind for pushing like that. 

Of course, it wasn’t all for getting to know Goro in the only way he’s made possible between the two of you lately. To say your cunt didn’t ache from emptiness this afternoon would be a betrayal to your true libido, a monster held face down in chains by social normalities. You felt like a gaping hole in the ground, and your purpose was to wait until someone packed you full of dirt. Your body felt like a rocky seaship, carefully holding onto its bases as it approached bigger and bigger waves, until all of a sudden one gigantic wave takes you by surprise in gobbling you whole. Then, you’re overboard and soaked with the sea of your own arousal, liquid and smooth on your fingers. 

Picturing Goro hungry, then starved, then rabid like a stray dog, is all it takes to have you struggling to breathe correctly. You recall previous experiences, hot-flashes of memories when his teeth dug into every part of your naked body; he bit you like a fingernail. Your limbs felt wobbly and loose, like you’re simply a doll being swung around by a careless child on the playground. Time ate away at you at a snail’s pace, like a bird with its seed. Something weighed down on your belly; it felt slimy and suffocating, like gasoline waiting for a match to strike it into flames that riot against all your senses. 

Arousal is like watercolor - it will wash off. 

It’s just agonizing to _wait_ for desire to be cleansed. Hence, that text message that drove Goro mad. If you hadn’t known any better, you would have guessed he was an escaped mental asylum patient when he arrived at your apartment, determined and demoralized. 

Out of all the possibilities the evening could have had, you had made a promise. _I’m all yours if you’re all mine._ The words came out stumbling, accompanied by a mass erray of butterflies that had been toying with your stomach all evening. It was a promise so strong it bound you two together like handcuffs. You’re confident you’ll never break it; you simply don’t have the desire to, even if the metal were to scratch and claw at your wrists until they’re bloody and bruised. Despite all these mental games of chess Goro presents to you, you care so much about him that you know if it comes down to it, you will shatter like a window with rocks thrown through it, leaving pieces of yourself everywhere you can in his memory. 

Taught strings pull tighter and tighter behind your eyelids. You feel buried under thick dirt. The soil layers against the upper half of your torso. It burns your insides alive like acid reflux. 

You substitute the crying with a heavy, love drunk sigh, burying your face into your pillow looking for safety against Goro’s ability to know all.

Goro’s maroon eyes bore into you like you’re just another transparent vase, one he can clearly see through. It’s his turn to start his own psychoanalyzation case against you. When you say you can feel his stare, you quite literally mean so. His gaze feels like a diligent hand on your shoulder; testing the waters, a reasonable gesture affirming the fact that you’re about to fall apart. Like examining a banana to see how ripe it is in a grocery store. It makes you feel small, like a lone ant without its colony. Though he’s picked up on it, he says nothing, letting silence fill the space of your bedroom until it feels like cotton lodged against the insides of your throat. 

You swallow the tears back into wherever in your body tears are stored, and it tastes bitter, like you’ve kept a pill at the back of your throat and can now taste the medicinal flavor. 

“Now, then. I’ll go wash up. I’m afraid you’ve gotten me quite filthy,” Goro laughs charmingly, like the sound could be a ringtone, then turns to your bathroom before you even have the chance to berate him for his false politeness. Minutes earlier you were sucking his cock and he was eating your pussy. Now, he’s a doll again, where deceit fills his life form rather than cotton. 

You hear the distant sounds of your faucet starting, then the water working diligently to scrub his face and hands free of the scent of you, then the faucet going silent. There’s the rustle of clothing, a whoosh of a shirt over his head, the steady sounds of buttons going through coat holes, and finally, the distinct _zip_ sound of his slacks. So methodical, step by step, like a math problem. 

When you glance up, Goro’s putting back on his tar black gloves that are painted with non washable coats of efficiency, the article of clothing one again a key item for the detective prince image. They’re awfully sleek and stylish, which immediately told you that he cared about his appearance and the identity he’d built up for himself on television. Before whatever _this_ is, you wondered if Goro ever took the gloves off; they seemed imprinted onto his skin, so much so that the glove print would mark deeply across the flesh of his hands, like he’d been branded by the Yakuza. He certainly wears it with a childish sense of triumph, but comparing Goro’s gloves to an honorary gang piece certainly isn’t how he sees it. 

The gloves are sacred. Treated with care, similar to how a priest maintains the image of his church. Goro without his gloves is a nun without her rosary. A worshipper without a God. Jesus without his crown of thorns. 

A conversation about a pen and his gloves was the exigence to start this unbreakable pain in your chest. 

* * *

It was a Sunday, back in mid May, when the weather caressed the public in a blanket of mild heat and a storm of pollen. The allergies of the public made them weighed down with irritation, as if pollen itself was a bag of cement each and every person had to carry on individual shoulders. The general atmosphere on the streets and subway was filled to the brim with animosity. One bad thing was all it took for the average person to be set overboard into obnoxious, overtly frustrated anger. 

You weren’t in the mood to go anywhere and join in the misery until _he_ happened. 

_Would you care to meet up with me at the library? There’s something I’d like to ask you, seeing as I often find your perspective refreshing_ , is the text you’d gotten from Goro, exactly 12 pm sharp. It was timed so perfectly, you thought about the possibility that he’d been eagerly hunched over his watch like a child with a new videogame, and you giggled knowing that while that is out of character, so is Akechi Goro asking for you on his day off. The day off where he typically holds himself up in his room so he can cram for school. 

_Interesting_ , you thought. He’s never asked for your company outside of school. 

Akechi Goro was a strange boy. He liked to debate philosophy with you in school, sometimes during lunch when his job wasn’t demanding him to go off site during the school day, and seemed to like the fact that you did not fawn over him like all of his other female peers. Akechi Goro liked you, probably for the fact that you didn’t lie and you didn’t let his influence sway you into bowing down to him. Akechi Goro was stubborn in his beliefs in discussions with you, yet he always posed a welcoming attitude interwoven with an inquisitive nature. 

Akechi Goro was a strange boy. You’ve learned that he was all about law and order, yet resisted the system’s boundaries all at once. You noticed that he’d talk about certain criminals with a tinge of soot tangled into his polite tone, and watched how he suppressed multiple curses behind his lips when he’d told you about an especially nasty case he’d dealt with recently. One where a man had murdered his wife in a domestic abuse assault, leaving their only child to a youth full of orphanages because dad was now locked in prison for a brutal crime, and mom was 6 feet under the ground instead of alive and safe from him. There was a quiet rage in his words; you felt like Akechi Goro’s anger alone could kill. 

Akechi Goro was a strange boy. Despite all previous accounts, he had a kind voice laced with understanding to anyone he talked to, hair that fell to his shoulders in loose, cinnamon waves, and an adored smile that felt like a hug to anyone in the presence of it. He was Japan’s perfect posterboy, a successful child celebrity with killer intellect and charm. A flawless example of the youth of the country. He’s a boy with everything you could ever need, wrapped methodically together like a Christmas present. 

You’ve seen what fame has done to young people before, especially through the lens of American society where child celebrities rot from within because of Hollywood’s constant placement of child stars into adult situations. So much pressure from a young age can wilt even the strongest of beautiful flowers. There’s always drugs, or alcohol, or trauma that haunts their souls into adulthood. You bet he’s seen a lot of things he never should have been exposed to in the first place. 

There’s something dark and gravelly glowing in his eyes, and it doesn’t come from detective work. 

The story of the orphan, his murdered mother, and his bloodthirsty father tolls in your mind like a church’s funeral bell. 

In the safety of your bed one night, you drifted off to sleep with the question, ‘ _How long till he snaps_?’ The inquiry felt invasive on your brain, like it were a parasite. 

And then the next morning, Akechi Goro, your own special case study, wants to talk with you outside of the classroom. 

You try to resist the way redness dances across your face at the thought. 

* * *

In the library, Goro had chosen the third floor in the most secluded place you could think of within the building. You’d approached him, and planned to sit down across from him on this small but wide table, but you opted out to let the incoming sun from the window bathe your hair in its warmth. That’s when you felt that first ache swarm like angry wasps in the confines of your chest. 

You had noticed it before, but only in superficial ways. Goro Akechi was good looking enough to be in every magazine, always handsome and tidy for television specials, tastefully fashioned in every social setting, even in the bores of school. But you had never really paid attention to the beauty that rested gracefully on his face. 

Perhaps the reason why it took you so long to be struck with it was because this beauty didn’t exist when Goro was aware he was being observed. His crimson brows were furrowed deep together, like they were threads stitched tightly by a sewing machine. His hair is now thoroughly layered in crimson delight with his head bent over across a textbook; it reminded you of a waterfall cascading down a mountain, fluid and hypnotizing in its movement. What was most remarkable to you was the difference in his eyes; the color of wine that pooled in his iris remained as rich as ever, but the eyes were narrower, and much more natural. Here, you saw the truth behind the mask, even as a glimpse, and for once understood what it’s like to be starstruck. 

There is beauty in truth, and god dammit, Goro Akechi was beautiful. 

You’d been blinded by nuclear superficialities to ever really think too much about the physical comparisons of Goro to a prince, but as it seems, the tabloids and girls on the train were correct in that department. He’s got that classic type of beauty; one you see hung up in castles by large and elegantly detailed antique frames. His face now seemed like something too good to be true; you’ve learnt in school that royals were often painted to be more attractive than they actually were, but there are no lies in Goro’s refined features now that you study him closely. If his fairness had a taste, you had supposed you’d liken it to hot fudge - delicate, rich, and warm. 

He’s fucking beautiful, and you’re such a fucking fool. 

Goro recklessly gnaws on the pointed end of his expensive, delicately painted pen, his teeth nipping at the metal as if he were tasting a new flavor of gum. If it’s unsightly for the detective prince, he certainly doesn’t have the energy to care anymore. His stare sticks to the textbook page littered in numbers and formulas, and a sigh almost escapes out of you, a sigh that has empathy for his predicament. 

You recognize the look he has for a moment. Although it’s more intense in the quiet confines of the library, it still brings you back to the first time you two had met. Goro looked at you like he’d just found the last piece of a puzzle he’d have to solve, and you assumed you must have done the same, because the impoliteness from both parties seemed not to occur to you until you blinked. Then, the rules of the world had mattered again, and all you told the detective was, “it’s rude to stare,” before abruptly walking away. You hoped it would fascinate him, like you were a fun fact he learned in a book that he was obsessed with. 

It had worked like a charm, because he approached you the next day outside the gates of school and asked for your chat ID with an apology for the day before, a prince-charming smile, and a voice that could taste like honey. 

Your gaze flits from his mouth to his fingers where he’s about to carefully turn the corner of a page, then back up to his observant face and weathered brow. 

Without glancing up from his hefty math book, Goro smirks with a flirty quirk tip toeing on his lips, before cunningly snickering, “Don’t you think it’s rude to stare? Or is your own staring an exception to the rules?” 

Oh, _wow_ . He’s teasing you. Flirtatiously. For the first time ever. Truth be told, he had been a bit bolder with the use of his wit on you lately,but you didn’t know it would lead to this. A mix of intuition and logic makes a _click_ sound in your brain. _That’s_ more honest.

Everything about the last observations of Goro’s grace catch up to you. His wickedly coy sneer and mischievous remark do little to remedy the budding heat in your cheeks and the thumping love organ pounding against your chest. Your mind stumbled around in your brain to conjure a reasonable response, as if your thoughts were its own person trying to find a pen and paper to write something important down. With an indignant sigh, the only words you can find fall out. 

“You’ll ruin your pen if you keep chewing like that, you know.”

The detective turns his face to yours and blinks, slow and exaggerated, and you feel shameful, as if Goro’s expression alone was as harsh as a scolding from your mother. 

“Really? Is my pen worth that much to you?” The question sounds bitingly sarcastic, like his voice had grabbed you by the wrist and slapped it so hard to the point where it was red. You find yourself enjoying it much more than you anticipated. 

“Mm, no,” you respond with an upwards twitch of your lips, letting excitement take you by the hands and spin you around until you’re dizzy. Goro’s fun to talk to, really _really_ fun to talk to, but especially today. 

His eyes twitch and fumble around your face, analyzing you like you’re a piece of art he can’t quite place full meaning to. 

“Then what is it?” Goro taps the pen against his full bottom lip in a slow rhythm, and you swallow noticeably as you imagine what it would be like to take his lips in an embrace with yours. A light flickers low in your belly, but you stomp the flame inside you out fast before it can really consume you. _Concentrate._ Despite your efforts, he takes full notice of your physicality as he smiles, but underneath the cloak of pleasantness, you can tell he’s fighting off a full shit-eating smirk. Maybe, he just wasn’t trying to hide it. 

What is it? _You’re beautiful_. 

You want to fucking scream it until your throat is raw. 

Your true feelings hammer a stinging nail into your tongue, demanding you speak on what you think, and it physically hurts to keep quiet. 

Fuck it. You don’t see any point in lying, especially when you feel so imprisoned by it now. 

You don’t commit fully, and what words _do_ come out is definitely a simmered down version of what you really feel, but it is a truth, nonetheless. 

“I think you look good today, Goro.”

Goro reacts to the compliment and the usage of his first name in an entirely uncharacteristic manner; his eyes fight a battle between a performance and the truth plastered in them, with ultimately the truth getting the upper hand on his lies. You see genuine cold and hard shock - it feels icy, like you’d plucked it straight from the North Pole. His mouth twitches erratically like that singular part of his face had been tased. Goro chokes a little, but the movement in his throat looks so drastic, like he was a cartoon and a fork had gotten lodged in his throat. You detect a hint of pink in his cheeks, and you then realize that you’ve never seen him in pink despite how the color flatters him so well. 

A buzz of pride tickles its way up your spine and settles on the nape of your neck. There’s something warm settling on your skin, and it feels like a blanket in an otherwise cold home. 

Goro appears to have an easily wounded pride, because he almost glares at you for a second, embarrassed and weakened to something as dreaded as a compliment, before swallowing like he’d just drank the world’s nastiest protein drink, then letting a calm face masquerade him again. 

“I must admit, you never fail to surprise me. Sit. I _do_ have a question to ask you, after all.” 

You don’t like being told what to do - Goro speaks like he’s the leader of the two of you, and while you’re intrigued on the subject of the question, your mind creaks like an old floorboard wondering where this directness came from. It isn’t a turn off - in fact, it’s exhilarating knowing you’ve ripped off a mask of Goro’s. Now, you’ve felt his natural bluntness brush across your flesh. But still, he’s commanding you, and naturally you feel your eyebrows quirk up in response to both his statement and his tone. 

You take a seat anyways, a resilient eyebrow still raised as he eyes you from across the table. 

There’s a satisfying _click_ sound from the snapping of his pen, and a tighter rasp of leather from his gloves. Your gaze naturally floats to his hands, and you study the outlines on his palm and shape of his slender fingers that quirk in the air, always seeming like they have some place to be or something to touch. You realize that Goro’s gloves reflect his energy around you; one leathered hand - his left, you note - is wrapped firmly around that signature pen, so much so you can hear the fabric scrunch together. It’s like he’s holding himself back from what he really wants to use this hand for. (And for what purpose? You’re not sure.) His right idly taps his index finger in a steady but fluid melody, like he’s holding a private performance for himself. The movements of his right hand are skillful, although slightly lacking the persistence of his left. 

Huh. Akechi Goro is ambidextrous, although stronger with his left. You’d have to guess left is his natural go-to hand.

“First, it was my face, and now, it is my hands. What is _with_ you today?” Goro asks scoldingly, annoyance and curiosity taking turns controlling his voice. You meet his eyes and it's truly the most alive you’ve seen them; they’re still burning, simmering down into a low burgundy ash, the smell of smoke lingering on his pupils. The look is intoxicating like the vanilla scent of rum, yet its true taste is bitter. You can easily see yourself becoming addicted to this unique facet of Goro’s stares, ignoring whether or not it’s good for you. 

What you do know is that it makes you _feel_ good. 

A playful smirk energetically sprouts against your lips, like weeds against the grass during the summer. You feel heat, as if you were concrete with the sun beating down against you. A teasing response has already been formed in your mind, and it tickles your tongue on its way out to be spoken. 

“Did you know that during the Spanish Inquisition, lasting from the 15th to 16th centuries, left-handed people were occasionally executed by the Catholic Church because of the belief that the left side was associated with the Devil?” 

Goro’s facial features ripple from top to bottom. An otherwise serious stare transforms into a dark, mischievous energy, mirroring your own. His tongue slightly parts out of his mouth, then sweeps across his bottom lip in a deliberately slow manner, making your body feel like the scent of rainfall in late August. Whatever he’s doing, it’s pulling at you and you feel like you have to move closer to him, as if your body was adhering to the laws of physics. What would the North pole be without the South? You’ve discovered that attraction is _quite_ the magnet.

The gloves restrict and loosen again, making that noise you’ve become seduced by. Your heart begins to sear wicked bolts of lightning against your chest again, and in that moment, you prayed it was simply acid reflux.

Prayed. The effort was fruitless. God is unfamiliar with your pleas. 

“So, you’ve noticed. Yes, I am left-handed. I’m still considering how I feel about you bringing it up in such a morbid manner,” Goro responds cooly, a tiny smile betraying his words. 

“You liked it,” you giggle, leaning backwards a bit in your chair, your fingers playing with any article of clothing that can be toyed with. Anxiety is not an unfamiliar territory in your life; chatting with your friend should be an exception, but lately it seems that Goro has been pulling an already loose string when you’re around him. Today, it’s like the string has become entirely unraveled as your nerves burst in your blood. The pounding in your chest is made up of want, and it does little to soothe the worry. In fact, it only itches the inner turmoil, irritating the wound-like emotion until it’s a bright red. 

To say you didn’t know why this was happening from previous revelations made today would be a betrayal to yourself. Sanctuary lies in either Goro’s lips pressed up against yours, or going home early to spoon a pillow and pretend that your feelings today had never existed, and you expect neither of those things will come to fruition. Instead, you breathe against the current and find your grip on the handle for this rocky ride ahead of you. 

It just so happens to be that “finding your grip on the handle” translates to barely twisting the bottom ends of your crop-top. 

“I did.”

Victory. 

“But we’re getting distracted. Especially you, staring at my gloves like that.”

The embarrassment you feel is white hot, like metal with the sun beating down on it. 

“… Right.”

“I’m sure you know about the rumors of the Phantom Thieves at Shujin Academy.”

The _rumors_ . Yeah, it’s all you can hear walking to school, to class, to lunch, to another class, and more classes, and back home. It’s become small talk amongst your peers. Instead of talking about the weather, teens discuss the phantom thieves and wonder aloud just how shady Shujin Academy _really_ is. Like for otherwise pristine and clean fingernails, there is a secret underneath that reveals hidden dirt underneath the nail bed. You’ve heard that disgraced olympic champion Suguru Kamoshida was a cover up for the principal’s sexual assault crimes. You’ve heard that Kamoshida got a girl to almost kill herself. You’ve heard that the Phantom Thieves are teachers themselves. You’ve also heard that the teachers knew and did nothing to stop the horror hidden behind the closed doors of the P.E faculty office. 

The only conclusion that seems most plausible is that the victims of Kamoshida were the Phantom Thieves. They knew his dirty laundry, they knew the ins and outs of how daily life at Shujin Academy works, and had motive to enact revenge on Kamoshida, whether it be a pacifist approach or a violent one behind the scenes. 

The question is _how_ were the Phantom Thieves of Hearts able to pull off a feat like that?

Only time would tell. 

Seconds have passed as fast as daylight in the winter as you argue with yourself in your head, and you feel the pressure of Goro’s statement (or question?) piling up on you like loads of homework on a desk. You give yourself a chance to blink several times in quick succession, as if your eyes were a strobelite, and then respond. 

“Yeah, I read the calling card posted online and heard about Kamoshida Suguru’s confession where he very much did exactly what the Phantom Thieves promised the students he would do.”

“Happy to see we’re on the same page. My question is, if these Phantom Thieves of Hearts do indeed exist, what do you think of them and their sense of justice?”

That’s a pretty fucking loaded question. Akechi Goro _is_ a strange boy, a _very_ strange boy to value _your_ opinion, one of a mere onlooker, equally to his other crime investigating peers. A match of curiosity lights up a hidden firecracker in your belly until it’s flying and setting off explosions in your veins. You don’t bother to conceal the utterly delighted smile gracing your features, and you think you must look like a baby with a new pacifier because of how _wide_ the grin feels on your face. 

Goro’s eyes narrow like an agitated cat stalking its prey. “What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing’s amusing. I’m just glad you value my opinion, that’s all.”

Goro looks at you dead pan like you’ve just said the most obvious thing in the world. It was as if you’d told him two plus two equals four as some kind of brilliant revelation. Embarrassment manifests to a dusty pink on your cheeks. _Now_ you understand the same irateness of those currently snot-nosed due to pollen, because this cocktail of swollen affection inside your chest and the anxiety awake behind your forehead makes _you_ feel powerless to nature and spring. The urge to turn your eyes away feels comparable to an allergic person needing to sneeze - without doing so, an itchy feeling piles up in the senses of the body, and you feel uncomfortably stuffed until the compulsion is given into. 

So, you advert your gaze, letting your eyes travel to the floor as you pretend to study the pattern of the rug like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve seen all day. You need something to distract you from the brutal desire to kiss and leave all at the same time. Anything will do, even some bland decorative rug, because beggars can’t be choosers. There’s a drum in your ears and a fog in your stare as you keep your head humiliatingly low to the ground. The sound of Goro solidly clearing his throat feels like a knife slicing through your train of thought; your look bounces vaguely to what _might_ be him clumsily, as if you’d lost your footing on reality for a moment. 

“Look at me.”

You don’t hesitate to follow an order this time. 

“Tell me,” Goro comments airily as if this conversation were up in the clouds. There’s a smile on his face, one more patient and rehearsed than expected. Despite the lack of authenticity, it does calm you down, and _god dammit_ , he has no right to be as good as fake intimacy as he is. “I want to know, truly.”

“Okay, fine. I’m not entirely sure what to think of them. On one hand, changing another person’s way of thinking and acting can be considered a crime of itself, as a group of people are acting as judge, jury, and executioner on their own will, unregulated. Another part of me recognizes that this group has stopped Kamoshida, preventing abuse and suffering students whose cries would have been swept under the rug for the betterment of the academy’s reputation.”

“I see. You recognize both sides of the argument for and against these alleged allies of justice. However, I must ask you this: what if these Phantom Thieves were using immoral methods to achieve their goal? I think there is a high possibility that this group damaged Kamoshida Suguru psychologically. Otherwise, there would be no possible motive for him to confess to such heinous actions. Would this cause you to be swayed to one side or the other?” 

Holy shit, he is unapologetically _pushy_ today. He sounds almost defensive, but not quite. You can’t pin the emotion in his speech down on a map; it feels all over the place, black and white, yet laced together with overall politeness that sends a shiver down your spine. 

Goro’s using that lighthearted, bubbly, and philosophical voice again, but you know you have him drawn into your answer like a fish with bait - light pools at the center of his iris, giving his eyes a sparkling effect that glimmers only when he’s really intrigued. You feel all of his focus, even his _awe_ , directed towards you, as if you were buried treasure discovered by mere chance by a drunk pirate. Yet his question feels specifically directed, as if he knows the Phantom Thieves personally and this one of many possibilities is the undying truth. You feel like a gun is being pointed at you and an answer is demanded.

So, why not give him an honest opinion _and_ something that will catch him off guard?

“Hypothetically speaking?”

Goro returns your question with a brisk nod. 

“Hypothetically speaking.”

You swallow what’s left of your good grace and reveal the ugly hidden under your own psyche’s thick band aid. 

“To be honest… I don’t care what they did to Kamoshida Suguru. At all. I think the people who call themselves the Phantom Thieves are victims of the man himself; they know about Shujin’s coverups, and they have the biggest motive to enact revenge on him. How? I don’t know. I doubt a couple of high school students have it in them to do something as violent as you suggest. And I don’t care if they were brutal either, really. There would be countless suicidal girls and numerous young lives stolen from a bright future, all because of the callousness of that man. As long as it didn’t hurt any innocent person, I would have wanted the same. In fact, I wouldn’t have cared if he died. But it’s a good thing he didn’t.”

“Oh?” 

“Don’t mistake my so-called mercy as compassion. The only purpose Kamoshida’s life has now is to suffer in prison, knowing that he could have been remembered as a legend before he fucked it all up for being a nymphomaniac with a thirst for highschool blood. He deserves to live with that for the rest of his miserable life”

Goro blinks back waves of surprise, each blink getting stronger, _heavier_ in its foundation to silence the performance-breaking blows you’ve landed onto him. You see a mix of surprise, then shock, then a twisted form of what appears to be _admiration_ coat his features like a heavy jacket in winter; warm, then _hot_ the longer you stay enveloped in it. The lock of his fiery eyes on yourself makes your skin feel pricked at like a cactus. A dark smile of his twists into an excited smirk, and your heart throws glass shards against your chest; he looks maniacal, like one of those cartoon villains they’d show early Saturday mornings on TV, and he pulls it off beautifully. 

Goro’s gloves hiss in a synchronizing fashion as he rubs his palms together speedily, his eyes fluttered gently shut, and you stare in silence at his face, wishing words would come out of his mouth already. 

Those goddamn gloves look like they’re about to be caught on _fire_. 

Maybe that’s what he likes. Maybe it’s what _you_ like. 

This heat. This boiling liquid in flux between the two of you. This fire that tears you apart from the inside out. It’s all passionate, whether for good reasons or bad. You were only caught up in it once before, held captive by it against your will, but now, you’ve walked into it and found yourself getting caught up in how _normal_ it feels. It’s an inferno. That’s the only way you can describe what you feel right now. 

Insanity. That’s the better explanation. 

You’ve sampled what you thought was insanity before in brief childish conquests in the past. Stealing candy from a convenience store at ages 6 and 7, the cheap thrill that would brush the hairs on the end of your neck. Skinny dipping with friends always granted the same rush - it was silly, a bit dangerous, and that’s what you’d liked about it. It had no real consequences in the end; your stealing phase ended at age 8, and the nights of skinny dipping would be forgotten about as soon as the sun slipped into your room the following morning. 

Liking Akechi Goro has consequences. Having feelings for Akechi Goro has consequences. 

And you find them _all_ so appealing. 

Your public life would be at risk, all of it open to sneering vitriol from fangirls and “criticism” from talk show hosts twice your age. Worth it. Violent stans willing to stalk you? Worth it. The idea of risking your life by kissing Japan’s famous detective boy is one that bounces aimlessly around in your head, and it’s all worth it, even if it’s just for the occasional hand holding or sweet nothings whispered in your ear. 

Plus, you haven’t forgotten that Akechi Goro is a strange boy with a strange darkness closely following behind his bright voice, like an ominous black cat stalking cemetery-goers on Halloween night. 

And yet, you find yourself drawn to this insanity. Like a moth to a fire. A lightbulb is too sweet of a comparison. 

Contrasting to the unhinged facial expression shown mere moments ago, Goro gets up respectfully, delicately pushes in his chair as the library’s property were fine China plates to be placed on a shelf, then turns to you with that same inferno blazing in his eyes as well. 

“You truly are _exceptional_ ,” Goro declares quietly, the last word whispered like it was forbidden upon his lips. 

You stand up quickly, feeling like you could fall, before grabbing his black and white patterned tie and cradling it like a gun in both hands. 

In the quiet, dusty back rooms of a library, prince detective Goro Akechi kisses you feverishly. And you don’t hold back. 

* * *

Those gloves had been removed later that day to pleasure you. Whenever he carelessly discarded his prized possession in favor of having more of you to himself, you felt undeniable pride bubble up inside you, like the emotion was just a physical reaction akin to warm water in a hot spring. Momentarily, you had entertained the thought of him getting his gloves filthy with the scent of you. Sprinkles of thick warmth trickled down the inside of your stomach towards your heat, as if arousal were an icicle in the blossoming spring. 

But it’s always better when it’s bare skin against bare skin. 

* * *

The memory, despite being 2 months ago, feels aged in your mind. Like when you’re in the bathtub for too long and your fingers are pruned up, unrecognizable of what they used to be. At least, compared to now it does. 

There goes that pesky ache again, rising from the dead like a zombie during a full moon. Love - you think that’s what it is, even though you hate even giving it that name - is the thing of nightmares, really, when you’re not sure if it’s requited or not. It’s hurt you more than a tumor. It’s scarier than any witch lurking in the forest if you lose track of your breadcrumbs, or that pale skinned vampire that stalks through the night, the predator of man. No, this is _way_ too real, and that’s what sends the chill down your spine. 

Love. Such a euphoric feeling. It’s scary because it will drive you wild. 

You feel it pound against your voice box, like a fist against a wooden door. It’s urging you to open up, and lately, you have no more defenses to keep whatever uncomfortable emotions you have at bay. You’ve fought for too long, after too many battles that have roared on inside you. Love is such a different type of want than the slick arousal that nestles in between your legs whenever Goro teases you in just the right way. 

Fuck it. This is that insanity you craved, right? 

You’ve heard the term, “be careful what you wish for”, but you hadn’t expected it to bite you in the ass so soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and feedback is massively appreciated! it helps me keep going as a writer. if you wanna talk, my tumblr is @machinebitez. thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing for goro’s character so i hope i did okay? i like to explore his character and i think an interesting topic to explore his character through is intimacy since he lacks so much of it. thank you for reading, kudos and feedback are appreciated!


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